


The Beginning of Something, The Beginning of Everything

by Eternaladdict



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:15:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eternaladdict/pseuds/Eternaladdict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Merlin looks down, sees the boy’s neck is broken, doesn't know whether it was the magic or the landing that had caused it, sure only in this moment of cold fury that he himself has killed this boy and that he doesn't care.'</p><p>Arthur, Merlin and what they might do to keep each other. A slightly darker look at love and power in Camelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beginning of Something, The Beginning of Everything

Arthur makes little attempt at any real hunting the initial day of their impromptu trip. By some unspoken agreement they do not stop at all that first morning, too caught up in their first breath of freedom after so long indoors.

Beyond the castle gates the east road runs flat and straight, cutting an almost perfect line through miles of cultivated fields. One long stretch of open space and Arthur takes to it fast, riding half blind into the sun, not bothering to look back or slow his pace, trusting Merlin to follow as he always does.

He can see the flash of red necktie out of the corner of his eye and Merlin’s presence at his side, the bright sunshine, the energy of the ride combines in a fierce jolt of satisfaction that makes him want to yell with the pure pleasure of it all. 

By mid-afternoon they are much deeper into the woodland than usual, everything darker and quieter, muffled by the weight of the trees and Arthur feels further from the burden of royal responsibility than he has in a long time. 

The horses follow the meandering curves of the river without haste. Arthur breathes in the sweet air with pleasure. The winter had been a long and hard one but spring had come at last. 

By mid afternoon their stomachs are beginning to rumble and they stop in the dappled sunlight, eating in companionable silence for a while.

“Let’s face it, you’re lost!” Merlin says at last, through a large mouthful of bread and cheese. He has settled himself comfortably against a tree, limbs outstretched and languid, looking the very image of satisfaction.

“Hmm” replies Arthur, who has not and could not ever truly be lost in these woods that he’d known since he was a child. But for some reason he finds the idea so oddly appealing, just him and Merlin together, without obligation or liability, that he makes no attempt at a denial.

Merlin doesn't seem the least concerned at his response, too busy devouring his meal in rapid, unsophisticated bites. Arthur tries to be disgusted but finds himself oddly hypnotised by the occasional erratic appearance of a wet, pink tongue sweeping over Merlin’s bottom lip to remove any last traces of crumbs. It's with distraction that he finishes his own meal.

“I should probably have told Gaius where we were going!” Merlin announces after a some minutes, in a tone of sudden realisation.

“Hmm” Arthur replies again, partly in agreement with Merlin but also somehow glad he hasn't told his guardian. The knowledge no-one knows where they are or that they had even left adding to the feeling of being lost, being free. As the Crown Prince of Camelot it isn't a feeling he has the opportunity to experience often.

He chances a glance at Merlin then and finds his servant looking straight back at him without any attempt to hide it. It's a strange kind of look especially coming from Merlin, utterly steady and without embarrassment. Arthur has the feeling he's being cataloged, that somehow Merlin knows exactly what he's thinking. He's clumsier than usual getting to his feet. 

'"I want to swim" he says, pacing to the edge of the river and back, fidgety with a sudden restless energy.

"If you like" Merlin replies lazily, eyes closed now and dozing.

"You too Merlin".

Blue eyes open a crack "Umm...no thank you"

"I wasn't asking"

"It's March Arthur." Merlin says with finality, settling more firmly against the tree. As if accurate knowledge of the seasons means he's somehow won the argument. 

Arthur stubbornly chooses to ignore the warning.

The water is freezing, crisp and clear and almost unbearable but Arthur's determined not to let on that perhaps Merlin might have been right when he implied it was a little early in the year for swimming. 

Even at its deepest the river only comes up to waist height. Abdominal muscles contracting Arthur wades to the deepest point and forces himself to drop down, knees bent and water up to his shoulders, not able to disguise the rather high pitched noise that escapes him as icy water hits sun warmed skin.

The sound of laughter draws his attention back to his manservant, looking far too warm and content lying in the sunlight.

"Merlin..." he calls when the cold has turned to an almost pleasant kind of numbness, trying to sound enticing.

"Nope"

"Meeeerliiin..." he tries again, stretching out the vowels.

There's no reply from the bank.

"Fine, stay there." Arthur states after a period of pointed silence. "But I can't be held responsible if you somehow happen to end up in the water clothes and all."

Merlin sits up slowly at that, looking at Arthur through narrowed eyes and obviously weighing up his chances. 

"You wouldn't!"

"Try me."

There's a brief and silent battle of wills, with Merlin refusing to look away and Arthur using all his serious princely abilities to keep from grinning. And then Merlin seems to accept his fate, climbing to his feet with a large exaggerated sigh and stripping off his outer tunic.

“Who ever let you be a prince?” he complains after a moment, hopping precariously on one foot as he struggles to remove a boot without unlacing it “You've clearly been driven mad with power!” 

Arthur can no longer suppress his grin. Merlin looks truly ridiculous jumping about like that, all bare chested and pale, his bottom lip stuck out in a boyish pout. But then he's smiling too, wide and bright.

The restless feeling is back, a creature prowling beneath Arthur's skin. It's oddly choking and he turns and swims a few paces, decidedly not looking at the growing expanse of lean white skin as Merlin undresses.

It's stupid, this feeling. Arthur has let Merlin undress him every night, has stood naked in front of him a hundred times without embarrassment. Merlin has washed the blood and dirt from his skin after battles when Arthur was too tired or too sore to do it himself. He has stitched up his wounds with a steady hand. There's no reason for this sudden breathlessness, this fluttering low in Arthur's belly. He swims a little further.

"I've been driven mad with incompetent manservants" Arthur calls back when he can trust his voice again.

\---

When the attack comes Arthur is distracted. Merlin's fault again. 

They spend an easy afternoon splashing around in the river, each doing their best to drown the other and by the time they finally emerge the pads of Arthur's fingers are as puckered as the dried fruit he occasionally smuggles to Merlin when he's feeling at his most beneficent. 

They are deep into the forest, the sunlight patchy at best but it's warm lying close together in the brightest spot they can find, pine needles and twigs digging into their backs. Merlin's elbow is solid and reassuring against his and Arthur feels content. Eyes heavy he lets them shut, lets himself drift off for a few lazy moments.

The rhythmic crunching of dried leaves and forest debris drifts towards him through the quiet, the sound filtering through senses made sluggish with warmth and sleep. He registers the noise and thinks it odd that people should be running with such urgency, here of all places, before the thought has a chance to fully process and then he's up and on his feet, already turning to identify the threat.

Three men are moving down the hill at speed, swords out and gleaming in the late afternoon light. His own sword lies a hundred yards away by the water's edge, abandoned with his overcoat and boots. The men run fast and straight, an economy to their movements that speaks of training and intent.

There's so little time.

“Merlin GO!” he spits, hauling the lighter man to his feet and pushing him in the direction of the trees. No time to glance back and see if his orders are being followed for once Arthur turns and sprints towards the water, reaching for his sword.

Its heavy weight is reassuring in his hands and Arthur holds the steel steady before him as they charge, waiting with a nerve that can only be born of real battle as his attackers close the distance. 

The man in the lead is the leanest of the three, packed with wiry muscle; the product of a hard life and harder training. The flame red hair, falling in childlike ringlets across his forehead, might have been comical in different circumstances but his eyes are hard beneath the bright curls. He's a good hundred yards in front of the other two attackers and he drops low as he comes into range, neatly avoiding the arc of Arthur's sword before bringing his own up in a brutal sweep at Arthur's legs. 

Arthur jumps and rolls on instinct, already back on his feet to meet the next blow. It comes quickly and then another and another. Arthur meets each one, metal screeching on metal as their swords clash again and again.

Redhead is good, his movements sharp and controlled. Arthur's last conscious thought before reaction takes over is that Merlin had better have done as he was told and got the hell out of the way. And then there is no more thinking, just the brutal instinct of battle. 

“Arthur!” Merlin's voice calls out, rough with panic as Arthur is a little too slow dodging a parry from the left, Redhead's weapon clipping his arm as he spins away. The wound stings and he can feel the warm wetness of blood soaking through the fabric of his tunic but it doesn't matter. He won't let it slow him down.

He feels more than hears the other two men as they join the fight. Distracted momentarily by a loud cracking sound of wood but unable to turn and find the source he ducks the next blow, stepping forward, already searching out cracks in his attackers' defense.

Opponent number two is shorter than Redhead but broader. He's breathing heavily from the run, obviously the least fit of the three and his hair is matted with sweat. A thick beard spattered with grey hides his expression from Arthur and only the eyes give him away; lined and crinkled and devoid of hope. Arthur knows not to look for mercy there.

The third is the youngest. The boy must be barely sixteen but Arthur is careful not examine him too closely. He does not appreciate fighting children. The boy's face is fresh and bare, save for a deep scar running vertical from forehead to cheek. It cuts sharply across his left eye, the ball lying fixed and unmoving in its socket, white filmed and sightless. Arthur doesn't try to consider what his life must have been to have acquired such a wound so young.

Arthur's body is waking up now, finding its natural rhythm but he finds himself wishing for his shield as three swords swing at him simultaneously, only his speed and agility saving him from decapitation as he's forced once again to dart out of range. Defense will not save him forever and with all the ducking and serving Arthur finds himself struggling to land a blow, a fact which is apparently all too obvious to his manservant, still watching anxiously from the side lines. 

Without warning, as Arthur narrowly avoids yet another jab aimed at his midsection Merlin appears behind One-Eye, looking incongruously calm in the urgency of it all. A fairly hefty looking tree branch is clutched in his right hand and Arthur suddenly understands the sound of cracking wood earlier, though he has no idea how Merlin has found the means to detach a branch that thick. Without hesitation his manservant swings the log at the young man's head and the boy is pitched forward, falling to his knees with the force of the blow but somehow managing to keep hold of his sword. Arthur feels a brief spark of admiration before a deft lunge from Grey Beard draws his attention away. 

Merlin and One-Eye are on the floor grappling for possession of the weapon. Arthur spares a glances and sees his manservant take hold of the boy's arm as it reaches for the sword, twisting sharply in a maneuver Arthur himself taught him and he feels an intense flare of pride as One-Eye is forced to let go or break his own wrist. For a few glorious moments he thinks everything is going to be alright, that they have this under control. Merlin seems to have the upper hand as the two men struggle on the floor and Arthur himself is finding it much easier with one less to fight.

He takes to the offensive easily now, landing several blows in quick succession. Redheaded only just avoids a clever backhanded sweep which would have proved fatal had it reached its mark.

And then suddenly he turns to find One-Eye has somehow gained his feet and his weapon. His sword is raised above Merlin who is still lying on the ground looking up, his hand held out stupidly in front of him as if that alone could stop the fall of steel. It seems unreal. Only an hour ago they were swimming in the sunlight, not a single worry between them. Arthur's heart is in his throat. It's like a nightmare, as horrible as it is incomprehensible. The steel will come down and Merlin will die and Arthur is too far away to prevent it. There isn't enough time to stop it. 

With a guttural scream Arthur launches himself forward. One-Eye looks up at the sound, shocked into immobility for the briefest of moments by the sight of Camelot's Crown Prince descending on him with fire in his eyes and then he comes back to himself, bringing the sword down in a swift arc at Merlin's head. But a brief moment is all that Arthur needs, his own sword catching the boy's before it can reach its mark. Arthur twists, forcing One-Eye's sword to the side and using his whole body to shove the boy back and away from Merlin. 

The other two men aren't far behind, all three fighting him together, leaving no space between attacks. But Arthur is equal to them all, meeting their blows with a new urgency, a fierceness fueled by pure fear.

Merlin is on his feet again, hovering in the periphery but seeming to understand he shouldn't get involved.

"All men have weakness" his Father had told him when Arthur had been just a child in training, barely able to lift a sword and so frightened to fight the older, much taller boy they had placed in front of him. "It is up to you to find it".

Arthur had fought everything they presented him with; man, animal or monster. He had been beaten, cut, knocked down, knocked out. He'd bled and sweated and fought until every muscle in his body was screaming with the pain of it, until he hated his opponent, hated his Father, hated that stubborn prideful streak in his own nature that wouldn't let him stop, wouldn't let him admit defeat but he had learned that lesson and he had learned it well. Outnumbered, caught unaware, it doesn't matter. All men have weakness. He sets about finding theirs.

They fall back towards the river and Arthur follows, ducking the next swing with ease and silently cataloging Beardy's tendency to step back and take stock after each failed swing. The man is still breathing heavily. One beat, two...he collects his strength before each fresh assault. The youngest is the most eager and inexperienced of the three but less predictable for being so, his blows wilder and more erratic.

They crowd together, not enough room to fight him all at once but too eager for the kill to leave each other space. Arthur twists sharply as the eldest man lunges, his sword aimed straight at the King's heart and throws an elbow into the man's stomach even as he turns to his left to met Redhead's next blow. 

Beardy falls back, gasping and is down for a beat...two beats. Arthur counts. Three and the older man launches himself forward again. 

Arthur is ready, sword thrown out before him at the last second. Propelled by his own momentum, unable to stop, the man impales himself almost to the hilt, his eyes pulled wide with surprise as the life slips from them.

Forced to let go of his sword as the weight of the body takes it with it to the floor Arthur throws himself to the side, rolling swiftly and finding his feet again, reaching to withdraw his sword with a thick, wet sound. The handle is slippery with blood and he tightens his grip as the two surviving men step back, obviously shaken by the demise of their ally.

It isn't quite elation but Arthur feels something like a grim kind of triumph as he moves forwards to attack again, knowing that he has this, knowing with certainty he's going to win. He advances as his opponents withdraw, backing them up to the very edge of the river so that they stumble over the mossy rocks, trying desperately to keep their feet. Water laps pleasant and cooling over his toes and Arthur remembers with surprise that his feet are still bare.

There is a pause as they stand opposite each other, all waiting for someone else to make the first move. After a moment Redhead, clearly having had enough of waiting, throws himself forwards without any of his earlier finesse. Arthur raises his sword to meet him and then the younger man too, driving them both further into the river, each blow fierce and economical, the promise of victory in every swing. 

The other men seem to sense their imminent loss. Redhead's last jab is clumsy and desperate and Arthur parries it with ease, twisting his wrist so that the other man's weapon twists with it and comes loose from his hands. It lands a few feet away with a satisfying splash. Arthur lifts his own sword towards his enemy and feels again that same cold flare of triumph. One opponent disarmed, the other just a child. It's over.

He steps forward to finish the task and senses the danger before it happens. Wet moss on an uneven stone. One misplaced foot and suddenly he's slipping, falling forward unable to get his balance, unable to stop himself. His forehead hits rock with a sickening thud and the world goes black.

There is nothing but darkness for moment and then a sharp, throbbing pain. Momentarily stunned Arthur tries to collect the parts of his brain that seemed to have been knocked out of him and scattered by the fall. Face down in the water he pulls himself to his hands and knees, blood dripping warm and stinging into his eyes. It takes a brief second to realise that his sword has slipped from his hand and is lost somewhere but then a body is barreling into him from the side, driving him back down into the water and he can't think any more.

From some great distance Arthur thinks he hears someone yell; a brief, desperate protest but then all sound is cut short as he's driven under the surface. Flashes of red hair and freckled skin identify his assailant and Arthur grapples with him, managing to get above the water for a few blessed moments, gasping hungry lungfuls of air before he's thrown backwards and once again driven under, chest burning with the need to breathe.

He grabs desperately at Redhead's arms, at his shoulder, his face, anything that could cause him to let go but the older man's grip does not weaken. Vision quickly growing blurry he looks up through water turned pink by his own blood and sees the shape of One-Eye standing over him. The boy looks down at him and raises his sword as he had done to Merlin a few moments earlier. Arthur sees it falling and shuts his eyes against the sudden gold light it reflects, knowing with a churlish certainty that this will be his death.

The blow never comes. Arthur opens his eyes again, no longer able to make out One-Eye above him. The hands holding him down slacken for a moment and it's all the weakness Arthur needs. He surges upwards with his last remaining strength, throwing Redhead backwards. Coughing, gasping he drags himself to his knees and feels around in the water for his sword. 

Redhead’s attention seems fixed on some point behind Arthur and he takes advantage of the man's distraction as his searching fingertips find cold steel. Both hands white knuckled around the hilt he brings the sword upwards with his last remaining strength. The blade slides neatly between the other man's ribs. Quietly and without fuss Redhead falls face first into the water and does not stir again. 

Arthur wants nothing more than to collapse right there. Every last part of him aching he drags himself to his feet with Pendragon stubbornness alone and surveys the scene. 

Redhead lies where he fell, bright curls bouncing almost cheerfully in the current.

Standing just beyond the river is Merlin, his head down and fixed on the body at his feet.

Arthur enjoys a moment of sheer relief that Merlin is still alive and breathing. He wades forward, stumbling on the slippery rocks, conscious that he must look slightly ridiculous but not caring, too desperate with a sharp, overwhelming need to get to his friend, to put his hands on him.

He's close enough to touch now and Arthur reaches for him, brings his arms up to pull Merlin close and just hold on when Merlin looks up and Arthur comes to a sudden halt, his hands hovering stupidly in the space between them.

It is just Merlin. The boy with big ears and an inexplicable inability to stay on his feet. The boy Arthur teases and ridicules and cares for more he would ever admit. 

But with Merlin standing there at his full height, all awkwardness dropped from his frame like a cloak he has no further use for it feels as if Arthur is looking at someone else. Utterly composed Merlin might have been made of stone. His eyes burn with a cold, fierce light as he looks Arthur up and down, cataloging him, checking for injuries. Arthur can't hold his gaze. He looks away quickly.

One-Eye lies unmoving at Merlin's feet, neck twisted at an impossible angle. The boy's face looks even younger in death. Arthur has the sudden memory of his sword as he brought it down at Merlin's head and can't find it in himself to be sorry. 

“You ok?” Merlin asks after a second, breaking the silence and Arthur feels a flash of annoyance that really, as the only trained Knight in the pair, he should be the one asking that question but there's something in Merlin's look, in that composed intensity of his face that keeps Arthur silent. The blue of his eyes looks oddly foreign. The whole fight must have lasted ten minutes. It feels like a lifetime ago that they were lying together in the sunshine. Merlin has just killed a man. Arthur feels more disturbed now than he had when three men were trying very enthusiastically to disembowel him. 

“We should clean up” Arthur says after a beat, putting as much royal insolence into the tone as he can muster. It sounds forced even to him.

They strip off quickly and efficiently, Merlin getting his shirt caught halfway over his head in the process and emerging looking annoyed, rumpled and much more himself again. 

Icy as the river is it feels indescribably good to wash the blood off. Arthur put his clothes back on slowly, too weary to care that they are still soaking wet. His lip throbs persistently, the wound reopening and oozing blood if he moves his mouth too widely. His left eye's beginning to blacken and swell and he feel's the sharp pain of broken ribs with every inhalation. Merlin is unmarked.

Arthur remembers the unnatural angle of One-Eye's neck and is filled with a sharp burst of curiosity, cutting through the weariness.

“What happened?”

“With what”' Merlin asks, pausing half dressed. His boots are on but unlaced and he holds his tunic gingerly in one hand like he's forgotten what to do with it. He looks as tired as Arthur feels.

“With the boy?” Arthur says, thinking it should have been obvious. “The last I saw was him bringing a sword down at my head and then the next thing I know he's dead at your feet and you don't have a scratch on you”.

“They were trying to kill you” Merlin says simply, like it's some kind of answer, like it explains how a man with a weapon and training could end up dead at the hands of a boy who can barely lift a sword, let alone wield one.

There is something in his voice, something open and raw that Arthur recognises and doesn't want to examine too closely.

“Yes, and they were doing pretty well at it too, so how is it you managed to escape unscathed?” Arthur presses further, understanding the tone in his friend’s voice, knowing it to be the same fear he'd had earlier when he thought Merlin might be about to die. 

He represses again that instinct to go to his manservant and put his hands on him, to feel his flesh warm and real and Merlin under his palms.

“Just lucky I guess”. Merlin shrugs a little sheepishly and smiles, clearly aiming at casual, but he isn't quite meeting Arthur's eyes and Arthur is almost sure he is lying.

“So he just dropped dead on his own did he?”

Merlin pauses for a brief moment and seems to gather some of his earlier calm.

“He slipped and hit his head, just like you” His voice grows more confident with each word, a story seeming to form in his head as he speaks. “I only dragged him up onto the bank to make sure he was dead”.

Merlin really is a terrible liar and Arthur IS certain now that Merlin is lying to him, he just doesn't understand why. Does Merlin really think Arthur would blame him for killing a man that had very recently tried to kill them both?

“Must have fallen pretty hard” Arthur replies after a moment. “His neck was broken”.

Merlin doesn't answer. He looks pale and nauseous in the dying light but like himself again, all trace of that foreign creature from earlier long gone and Arthur doesn't press the point further. 

He leaves Merlin to finish dressing and goes to locate the horses. He has them fed and tethered, with both bedrolls laid out and a fire lit by the time Merlin joins him. 

“So you CAN light your own fires!” Merlin says with mock surprise and a hint of his old spark as they lie down on opposite sides of the flames. 

“One requires the capacity of self-reliance when they have a servant like you Merlin” Arthur throws back, suddenly caring less about his wet clothes and aching lip. 

Exhaustion laps at him in persistent waves and Arthur can no longer resist. He shuts his eyes and finally, mercifully, with the comforting image of Merlin's body stretched out safe and close, he sleeps.


End file.
